


blood of the bond is as thick as water of the womb

by sekhmettt



Series: fate chose me and you [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Politics, Rare Pairings, Stream of Consciousness, i genuinely don't know what else to tag this, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sekhmettt/pseuds/sekhmettt
Summary: Elia gives her husband a son, and with it, a question of succession.
Relationships: Elia Martell & Jon Snow, Elia Martell/Ned Stark
Series: fate chose me and you [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917352
Comments: 37
Kudos: 253
Collections: Southern Renaissance (Dorne Renaissance)





	blood of the bond is as thick as water of the womb

**Author's Note:**

> Age check: Elia – 34. Ned – 29. Rhaenys – 11. Aegon – 9. Jon - 8. Sansa – 2.

Despite everything, it isn’t until she falls pregnant _again_ (and oh, that will never stop being a pleasant shock) that the question of inheriting Winterfell comes up. She hadn’t realized how heavily the question weighed upon Ned’s shoulders until he lays in bed beside her, both naked and sated under the covers, yet there is a frown on his mouth and a furrow in his brows.

She waits a few moments, expecting that he’ll pull himself out of whatever thought is causing such issue, but when the bad feelings linger, she takes action.

“I know I may not be as good as usual with this stomach in the way, but I didn’t realize my lovemaking caused actual consternation now.” She teases, pressing her body to her side and reach up to smooth out the furrow between his brows. “What’s wrong?” Ned blinks, gaze dragged from the stones on the ceiling over to her face.

“Believeme when I say I will not judge you, no matter what answer you give. I will not blame you either.” Elia tenses, disliking how serious this sounds and he sighs, “Who is heir to Winterfell?” Her tension bleeds away, replaced with confusion, looking for the trick in the question, for it seems obvious.

“…Jon?” Elia answers, frowning at him. It’s the correct answer, yet she’s sensing that it isn’t the one he’s expecting.

“…do you not wish Sansa to take it? Jon _is_ a legitimized bastard.” He says the words like they taste bad in his mouth, and she can understand why, nearly bristles in defense herself before calming, knowing he means nothing bad by it.

“Of course not. He’s your son, _our son_.” Elia states firmly, wondering where this conversation has come from, knowing that something must have happened.

“But he isn’t.” Ned murmurs, and her frown deepens, for it is rare for him to say as much aloud. Blood means nothing compared to a true parent’s love.

“Do you wish to disinherit him?” she asks uncertainly. It’s late to do so. The boy is eight years old, old enough to recognize his spot as heir and to recognize if it is suddenly taken from him. She doesn’t wish to do that to him, and despite his blood father, he _is_ a Stark. In name and face and personality. He’d be a good lord.

“I don’t, but I fear it may be what my bannermen expect.” He finally admits that he has received ravens, his men already offering their sons for Sansa’s hand, but not their first sons and heirs, no, but second sons and cousins. Men who would normally be far below the station of a Lord Paramount’s daughter, the daughter of a Princess of Dorne. But men who could give up their family name and become a Stark if need be.

Elia scowls, “Those men are overeager and foul. She’s a babe.” She can already guess that one is Karstark, and it only furthers her dislike of the old Lord, always vying for a spot for his blood at Winterfell. “The rest of the North recognizes Jon as your heir. And it should stay that way.” Ned relaxes at her words, seeming to fear that she’d push for Sansa to be heir.

Perhaps she should. She’s certain Doran would encourage it, and she can almost hear her mother complaining at her through the grave, yet she doesn’t care about spreading Martell blood. And Jon is her son. She raised him alongside Aegon, as if the boys were twins. He calls her mother. He may not have her blood, but he’s a Stark, and he’ll make a good lord. He’s already too serious and dutiful by far and he’s only _eight._

Suddenly, Elia fears that this babe in her stomach is a boy. Luwin is surprised by how large she is, given how far along she is, and she wonders if that’s a sign that this babe is a boy. A large, strong babe in comparison to Sansa’s sweet, tiny little figure. She had wanted a boy, after the daughter, but now she wonders. Perhaps most of the lords are placid because Sansa is a girl, because North of Dorne few follow the Rhoynish inheritance laws. If she is to have a boy, will people try to declare Jon a bastard once more? Ignore his given right to rule and push her babe as the lord? She won’t allow it. She won’t let such a relationship of envy and hurt feelings build between the boys, even if others wish it to be so.

Still, it’d be easier, if she had a girl.

And as it turns out, her wish is both granted and denied.

Arya Stark comes screaming into the world after a difficult birth. Not as bad as Sansa’s, for Elia is still awake, yet, the birth is not over.

Luwin tells her to push again, and she’s so exhausted, but she complies for he has never steered her wrong, and then, Brandon Stark comes screaming into the world. So tired, she cannot think on the implications, cannot worry over the future, can only just manage to clear the afterbirth before she falls into her slumber.

The blood loss was worse this time. The damage to her body even more so. After the fact, Ned tells her that Luwin feared she wouldn’t wake. Now, Luwin informs her she is truly barren, but should take moontea nonetheless. Falling pregnant with another child _will_ kill for. She dutifully agrees and doesn’t lament the brood of children she wanted to give Ned.

She has new babes to coddle, to love. _Twins_.

Arya is near the spitting image of Ned. Dark brown hair, gray eyes, already that long Stark face. But she has Elia’s color and she is almost certain the beginning of a widow’s peak. Bran, on the other hand, is perhaps the best mix of all her Stark children. He’s pale as Ned, with her dark eyes. He has her thick curls, but in a few shades lighter: brown like his father and sister. The long Stark face, but the sharp Martell nose.

Ned offers to name him Lewyn, and she considers it. It might help dissuade the Northern lords from considering the boy the true heir of Winterfell. Yet, when she had said Brandon, Ned’s eyes had misted over, and she knew he needed a family member returned to him more than she ever did. He will not have Lyanna from her girls, but he can have Brandon.

It is only a few months after the birth that she thinks back on that conversation with Ned, realizes that if Northern lords had looked to a daughter to usurp Jon, they must be far more content that she has given him a boy. Nothing has happened. No one has said anything, but suddenly she suspects the whole of the North is waiting for the raven to arrive, denouncing Jon as last in line for Winterfell and putting little Bran first.

She won’t allow it.

Bran will be a knight or his brother’s castellan or perhaps a lord to some minor Northern holdfast. But he will not be Lord of Winterfell. Perhaps, once, it might have been considered his right. But that had been given to Jon, and she would not take it from him, not willing to spurn one son by bond for a son by blood.

Nothing overt has been suggested, so Elia suggests nothing overt in return.

Elia is more adept at politics than any of these Northern lords, even the most wily of them. She wheels and deals, hints at a Northern marriage for Jon, swears a Dornish marriage for Bran. After near ten years in their domain, she knows these Northern lords, know they love nothing more than keeping the North in the North. Upon arrival, it had been a refreshing surprise, to know she was disliked not because of the color of her skin or her fragile health or her former husband, but simply because she had been born South of the Neck.

And so, she points out how little Alys Karstark already seems to get along well with Jon. Suggests that the Manderly daughters should come be Sansa’s ladies in waiting when she’s old enough, since they already giggle at little Jon in the training yard. Comments how beautifully Eddara Tallhart’s straight, fair hair looks next to Jon’s dark curls.

She mentions that her brother Doran wants one of her children to marry Dornish and that Bran would fit in wonderfully. Mentions that Oberyn will one day take her son for squire and wouldn’t it be sweet if he came to love a Dornish woman? Mentions the babes of her handmaidens, the girls they’ve had so close in age to her own new, sweet boy.

It makes her feel dirty, for Jon is only eight and Bran not even out of the crib. It is far too early to be considering a marriage for either of them, but it is the safest way to keep the eyes of the Northern lords firmly on Ned’s eldest son, rather than his youngest.

She should know that it wouldn’t work, for these blunt, honest Northerners.

She would note which lord dared brazenly ask if Ned means to move his bastard down the line of succession in the midst of the feast, but given the way most lords in attendance do nothing but look expectantly towards her husband, she presumes that the speaker shares the question of them all.

Ned shuts him down, shuts them all down, blunt and honest as the rest of them. With a twist of a frown on his mouth, he declares, “No. Jon is my first-born son. I will have him rule Winterfell after me. Brandon will come after him, if Jon has no children of his own.”

The lords look to her immediately, look for askance, look to see her offense at her husband’s blatant desire to keep his bastard ahead of her children. It feels strangely as if she is back in Harrenhal, the entire world watching her, waiting for her to crack as her husband rides by to crown a different woman his queen. Yet, this time, the smile on her face is easy and real.

She wonders if it is her place, but she cannot help but comment, dry wit on her tone, “It would rather be a waste of eight years of hard lordly lessons if we took it away from him now, no?” Let them be confused by her easy acceptance. Let them whisper that Lady Elia is too kind by far to her husband’s bastard. She doesn’t care, but she will let it be known that she will not contest Jon’s position, nor will she allow any of her children to do so.

Ned takes her hand, the lord is dismissed, and the feast continues as usual. Elia breathes a sigh of relief.

One crisis averted.

**Author's Note:**

> It amused me greatly that one of you commenters brought up the question of succession after the last work as I was in the middle of writing this. It's like, aha, way ahead of ya.
> 
> That being said, this one was a bit more dry than some of the others, I know, but it was necessary for the grand scheme of things. Best to get the question of succession out of the way early, if possible, but alas, it never truly goes away in a situation like this. For now, Jon is inheriting Winterfell. That's the intention of Ned and Elia, but things rarely turn out the way people plan in ASOIAF, eh?
> 
> Might put them at a disadvantage down the line if no one goes to the Wall and finds out about the Long Night to come though...hmm....wonder what could remedy that...
> 
> Haha, either way, hope you enjoyed this tiny little poke into politics. More to come in the big Game of Thrones rewrite a few oneshots down the line (which, by the way, I have started writing even though I said I'd finish my other multichapter fic first. Goddamnit, still have like ten chapters to the other fic, but I'm 15k into the GoT rewrite oof.)


End file.
